


Backwards and in High Heels

by danwriteskink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Dancing, F/M, High Heels, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, Shaving, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12233379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danwriteskink/pseuds/danwriteskink
Summary: Harold needs something special for John, and he knows that Zoe has resources to help him.





	Backwards and in High Heels

**Author's Note:**

> For Season of Kink 2017, prompt: fabric/feathers

Zoe, as always, was able to oblige. "I know a guy," she said to Harold. "I can get what you need." 

Harold sighed, relieved. "I'll meet you in the park this morning," he said. "Your contact will need a sample to work from." 

In the park the next day, Harold made a surreptitious exchange with Zoe: one of John's shoes, wrapped in tissue paper. "I hope that will suffice," he said. 

"It will be perfect, Harold." She tucked the wrapped parcel in her bag. "We haven't discussed payment – you know I don't do this for free." 

"I assure you, Ms Morgan, you'll be fully reimbursed..." Harold stopped speaking when Zoe took him by the wrist. 

"I'm not talking about money, Harold," she said. "I want to see." 

"Oh," said Harold. He could feel a blush start to spread from the back of his neck. Still, the idea of someone as an audience was intriguing. And John trusted Zoe, they'd been intimate in the past. "I think that we can arrange something like that." 

Zoe's smile wreathed her face: mysterious and pleased. "I'll call you when I have the goods." She stood and walked away without another word. 

Harold folded his hands in his lap and thought about John's face when he found out what they had planned. He smiled, too. 

Not long after the appointed time, John pushed open the door to the penthouse suite, surprise on his face to see Zoe taking tea with Harold. A shoebox, unlabelled, sat on the table beside the tea service. 

"I didn't realise you invited company, Harold," John said. "I'd have pulled out my tux." 

Harold smiled; John's posture and expression of mild interest showed that this was not a displeasing development. "Well, as a matter of fact, Ms Morgan has something a little more appropriate for this evening's entertainment. If you're willing?" 

John shrugged out of his overcoat and folded it over a chair. "I'm always willing, Harold. You know that." He lifted the top of the shoebox to peer inside. "It's nice that you bought Zoe a gift, though." 

"Oh, they're not for Ms Morgan, though she did help with their acquisition," said Harold. He stood, eased John's jacket off, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. John's skin was warm through the fine cotton, and Harold breathed in the smell of soap. He'd stopped at his apartment before he came, showered and changed, all for Harold. 

John took out the pair of glossy black stilettos, sized for his own long, narrow feet, and took a deep breath. "Really?" he said to Harold. He held the shoes in one hand: the heels were long and dangerous, but the shoes themselves seemed oddly delicate standing on his palm like that. Harold liked the way John carried them, as if they were fragile but dangerous, likely to explode if not given the correct care.

"Have you ever worn heels before?" he asked. It seemed a reasonable question; John had done some remarkable things in his time as a government assassin. 

John shook his head. "I know four ways to kill someone with them, but I've never worn them. I guess it seems self-explanatory," he said, unbuckling the straps and kicking off his own shoes. 

Zoe let out a sharp bark. "Millions of women world wide beg to differ, John." Then, as John balanced on one leg to peel off a sock, she stared at his leg. "Yeah, I thought you'd skip the finer details. You guys really are new at this, aren't you? It's lucky you've got me here." 

Harold leaned over to see what had caught her attention. He met John's eyes, and John shrugged, equally confused. 

"Honestly, you'd have just put them on, hairy toes and all, wouldn't you?" Zoe stood up, and reached into her purse. She held up a pack of razors, pink and sleekly shaped with flowers on the pack. "I'll go run a bath." 

John's expression was dubious and intrigued at the same time. Harold took his arm and led him to the bathroom. "Ms Morgan is a phenomenally organised woman," he said, encouragingly. 

"I suppose I should be glad it's not a straight razor," said John. He hooked the straps of the stilettos over one finger and walked with Harold towards the sound of running water. 

\---

Actually, having John take a bath was a great idea. Harold perched on the edge of the claw-footed tub, stroking John's face and neck, dipping his fingers in the warm, scented water. John kept his eyes closed while Zoe lathered him up. Harold folded a towel and tucked it under John's head. 

"Comfortable?" he asked. 

"I think it'll go better if I don't look," John said, with his eyes closed. "Blades make me nervous, if they're not in my hand." 

Zoe cupped his heel in her hand. "Don't worry, John. I've been doing this since I was twelve." She slid the razor through the foam, leaving behind a long strip of smooth, pale skin.

Harold felt himself harden a little; there was something intensely erotic about watching John submit himself to this treatment, the vulnerability of him lying naked in the tub, only partly covered by drifts of bubbles. Harold dipped his hand in the bath, let his fingers trail across John's chest underwater, idly stroked a nipple. John, for his part, with his eyes closed, turned his head to mouth at Harold's neck, tracing the edge of his collar, kissing up behind his ear. 

"You are wonderful," said Harold. "You are beautiful and brave." 

"And ridiculously hairy," said Zoe, rinsing the razor in the sink. She dragged it through the foam again, and John jumped as it snagged on hair. "There goes another one," she said, and threw it in the trash. She flicked the cover off a new one and rested a hand on her hip. "Maybe we should have gone with wax." 

John's eyes opened wide, and Harold heard him make a noise, a stifled moan. He was more into pain than Harold was – discipline was Harold's poison of choice – but the way he endured it, stoic and beautiful in his suffering, was incredibly arousing. Harold reached down into the soapy water, passed John's navel, and found his cock thrust hard against his belly. 

"No," said Zoe, pointing the razor at him. "Not until we're finished. I'm not nicking a trained assassin because he can't keep still."

"I can keep still," said John, in that soft, wheedling voice. "I'm very good at it. Ask Harold." 

Harold stroked John's cock, and withdrew his hand, ignoring John's low growl. He bent at the waist and kissed John, long and dirty, despite the soapy taste. "You are good," he said. "We can investigate that later." 

After another shower, and the application of lotion which Zoe assured him was entirely necessary, John stood before them, clean shaven from the thighs down. Harold sat in an armchair, one leg crossed, and Zoe next to him. He'd poured wine. It was very convivial, even with John standing there in his shirttails like a naughty schoolboy. 

"Now I have a gift for you," said Zoe, and handed Harold a flat box tied with a dark red ribbon. 

Harold untied the ribbon and let it spool through his fingers. Zoe, resourceful as always, had found a suspender belt fitted for John's narrow hips. There was nothing bawdy about it: it was a sleek and elegant item, black and functional. Stockings were nestled into the tissue paper: also black and fine, translucent as cobweb. He let them slide through his fingers like liquid. 

"I thought about panties," said Zoe. "I wasn't sure how you felt about the idea, so this seemed like a good starting point. Since John's new to this." 

"There never was much point in me posing as a woman in the CIA," said John. "I'm not really built for it." 

"Oh, I think we can find a way to make it work, " said Harold, stroking the smooth skin of John's thigh with his fingertips. 

It was easiest to slide the stockings on while John sat in the armchair, legs crooked over the side. Harold smoothed them all the way up to the top of John's muscled thighs, then clipped them on. He traced the top of the stockings with one finger; John's skin there was pale and soft under the black silk, a contrast to his cock, which jutted upwards, red and hard. 

"Now the heels," said Zoe, and passed them, one by one, to Harold. Harold slipped one onto John's foot while John watched him, eyes half closed, that sleepy, turned-on expression that he got only when he was feeling completely safe and loved. Harold admired the way they fit his long, narrow feet, then buckled them up. 

"Comfortable?" he said, sliding a hand up past John's knee, along the inside of his thighs. He couldn't keep his hands off John's legs, and John knew it, stretching one out as if admiring his new shoes, nestling his leg against Harold's hip. 

"Entirely," John said. He sat up with no apparent effort, and put his feet on the ground. Now the languid, sleepy expression was gone, as he carefully put weight on the shoes, adjusting his balance like a cat until he was standing. 

Zoe walked around him, arms crossed, examining the fit and the look. "I like them," she said. "Black leather is good for you, John." 

Harold held John's hands – not that he thought John would need assistance, since the man was all grace and balance – because he didn't want to let go. John took a step forward, wobbled almost imperceptibly, then stepped forward again with more surety. 

Harold sighed, at the way the heels changed John's stance: his shoulders were spread and his chest thrust forward, to counterbalance the way the heels made his ass thrust out behind. It had been a long time since Harold had danced and his body didn't move in quite the same way anymore, but something about the way John was standing made Harold want to shepherd him around, lead him and turn him and make him balance in those delicate shoes. He scooped an arm under John's and held his other out. John obliged, put his hand in Harold's and rested the other lightly on Harold's shoulder. Then Harold walked John backwards in a slow foxtrot. John could dance, of course, but it was fascinating to watch him reformulate the steps in his head for the woman's part. Slow-slow, quick-quick-slow. Around the room they went, John turning when Harold directed him, at first going carefully in the teetering heels, then adapting with speed that shouldn't have shocked Harold but always did, up on his toes and whirling easily. The silk stocking made a soft swish each time John's legs moved, a sound Harold automatically associated with delicacy and femininity, not someone lethal and muscular, not someone who moved like John, smelled like John. John was flirting with him now, that sleepy smile, the jut of his hips forward, as if Harold were somehow unaware of John's cock thrusting upwards, his bare shaven legs, his shirt open. 

Behind them came the soft clink of the decanter, and the liquid sound of brandy being poured. Zoe, left to her own devices, had kicked off her shoes and poured herself a glass. She sipped it, watching them dance, her dress rucked up to her thighs, then she sat in the armchair with one leg cocked over the arm. Her eyes met Harold's, and she raised the glass to him, took another sip, and slipped a hand into her panties. Harold had a sudden image of John kneeling between her legs, of Zoe's fist tight in John's hair, of Harold fucking John while Zoe uses his mouth. He turned John neatly, backed him up to the chairs, and, though it took a little doing, spun John flamboyantly under his arm. John laughed and ducked his head obligingly, then pulled up at the sight of Zoe teasing herself lazily. Harold pushed down on John's shoulders and he folded to his knees, so beautifully framed by the stockings and belt. 

John hadn't been an international spy because he didn't pick up on unspoken cues: he eased off Zoe's panties, checked once over his shoulder that Harold was on board with this – the bulge in his trousers would probably suffice, but Harold gestures towards Zoe with his chin, the order clear – and gets to work as instructed.

Zoe threw back her brandy, put down the glass, and just as Harold predicted, curled her fingers through his short hair, pulled him deeper in. 

"If you're feeling able, feedback would be instructive," said Harold. "I do like John to perform at his best, especially with guests." He perched on the arm next to Zoe's leg, and looked down at John avidly eating her out, his fingers spreading her open, his tongue working her clit up and down, side to side. 

"I don't have any complaints right now. I… oh," Zoe was having trouble focusing. She groaned and arched her back. "He's really good, isn't he?" 

Harold stroked the back of John's neck with two fingers, and John redoubled his efforts. "He's wonderful. Although, John, I think Ms Morgan would appreciate your fingers inside her." 

Zoe was as pleased with John's response to being directed as Harold was: she moaned, one hand working her nipple, the other pulling John's hair. When John pushed two fingers into her cunt, tilting them up, looking for the right place to stroke, she moaned, her hips moving against him in the chair. 

Harold unbuttoned his flies and went in search of lube. 

When he dripped lube into the cleft of John's ass, John jumped at the sudden cold, then lewdly spread his stocking-clad legs wider, arching his back as he made Zoe buck in the armchair. 

"Slow it down, please, John," Harold said. He didn't want this to be over before he'd had a chance to engage. John immediately obeyed, dropping the pace of his thrusting fingers, his flickering tongue.

Zoe scowled at him over the top of John's head. "Jesus, Harold," she said, sweaty and disarrayed. "I'm not here for party games." Then she sighed as John built up the pace again. Harold knew John was an excellent tease, and could string this out all night if ordered. 

"John, fucking finish the damn job!" Zoe gasped the next time he let her down. She ground against his face desperately, but he smiled at her from between her legs, a lazy, cruel smile. 

"Can't," he said, his voice muffled. "Not allowed." He gave her a long, slow lick to emphasise the point and she groaned, hooking her heels on the arms of the chair to thrust upwards at him. He laughed, and sat more upright, far away from her parted legs. 

"Harold!" Zoe probably meant to shout at him in exasperation, but it came out as a sobbing cry. Her hair was plastered to her forehead now, all her polished sophistication dissolving. She was lovely, Harold thought, as he pushed a footstool towards them. All that coolness and poise, falling away, revealing passion. Sometimes it was beautiful to watch things break; he had always treasured how beautifully John crumbled. Zoe's demise was different but no less magnificent, as she let go of all her control. 

He smiled, and sat on the footstool between John's stocking-clad ankles. "I think you'll find a small delay will only enhance the experience, Ms Morgan. For example…" He worked the lube all around John's asshole, then pushed a finger in. John moaned in response and thrust back against Harold, his lips wrapped around Zoe's clit, sucking. 

Zoe made an astonishing noise, a shuddering inhalation and moan, which tapered off into a sigh as John eased back again. She pulled at her nipple, and let go of John's hair to stroke herself, but John caught her hand and held it tight. 

"Thank you, John," Harold said. "You're doing so well." He stroked John's calf through the silk stocking, all the way along the seam to the top of the thigh, all the while moving his fingers inside John, stretching, stroking, never stopping. John's hips rocked a little with the motion, and Harold could hear him, moaning low between Zoe's legs. 

When the ache in his groin was becoming unbearably painful, Harold propped a knee on the footstool, shifting until his weight distribution was comfortable. He took a moment to look over the tableau spread out in front of him: Zoe, splayed wide open on a red velvet armchair, her skirt rucked up and the plum satin straps of her bra gleaming on her arms where she'd pushed them down. John's face gleamed too, where he was slick from her cunt. John was on his knees – he was so beautiful on his knees – arched over Zoe, busy with his fingers and tongue. His legs were smooth and sleek in the black silk stockings, and in the way that John was competent at everything he tried, the seams remained flawlessly straight from the heels of the black stilettoes to the top of his thighs. Between his cheeks, he was open and waiting; Harold could see how much he wanted to be taken, from the arch of his back to the way he spread his legs. 

Zoe was all but begging now, soft and desperate whimpers as she ground against John's mouth. Harold thought that there were few men who had heard Zoe Morgan beg. He was so proud of John, who had worked hard to bring her to the brink of orgasm again and again tonight, with no promise of pleasure himself. Harold wanted him to feel good, though. John had earned it, though he would be the first to deny it; John was too ready to deny himself anything, despite how much Harold had tried to break him of that. 

Harold stroked John's back, his cheeks, pushed them apart. Beneath him, John shuddered and arched, so ready. Harold took himself in hand and pushed slowly into John. John shuddered the full length of his body as he opened for Harold, and Harold sighed at the heat and pressure of John all around him. . John's legs were parted so wide now, his back lowered and his ass up, to give Harold the best access, so Harold could go as deep as possible. Harold went gently but decisively to the root, until he felt his balls against John's skin, till his own thighs brushed the silken stockings. 

John groaned, letting his head hang low as he took Harold in, and Zoe snarled, angry at the sudden lack of attention. She reached for John's hair, tugged his head back ready to thrust his face at her cunt again, but she stopped, her face amazed at the expression she saw there. 

Harold began a slow stroke, in and out, while John clenched all around him. "He takes it so well, don't you think?" 

"Oh, god," said Zoe. "Look at him." Her hand strayed to her clit, and distracted, John didn't stop her.

Harold knew what she saw; he'd fucked John often enough in front of a mirror. He liked forcing John to watch his own body experience pleasure. John's eyelids would be hooded and his mouth open, but even more, the expression of utter submission and acceptance was the thing that Harold loved. John was deadly, competent, stronger and fitter than most people. It was astonishing to see him as vulnerable as this, as obedient and as desperate to please. 

Zoe's fingers moved faster, and watching her take pleasure from John's obvious submission moved Harold closer to his own climax. Beneath him, John leaned his head on Zoe's thigh, gasping with every thrust. Zoe had one hand in his hair, and the other on herself, and she was close, so close. 

"I've often thought," Harold said, keeping his voice as conversational as possible as John gripped hard around his cock. "Though there's nothing lacking in our relationship as such…" he paused for a moment as John's raspy breathing almost sent him over the edge. "There are certain physical issues that prevent me from taking John as hard as I'd like to. Though I suspect there are few who could really test his stamina in that way; John is very fit, and very able to accommodate penetration." 

John whimpered, and arched himself more, opening himself for Harold's perfectly adequate thrusts, while he mouthed his way along Zoe's thigh back to her cunt. Zoe panted, pushed herself against his mouth, so close to coming. 

Harold let his fingertips trace the top of the stockings as he brought John closer to orgasm. "But knowing your inclination lies in a similar direction, perhaps we could arrange for you to fuck John?" 

He timed the question with a few quick thrusts, at an angle calculated to make John wail. "And while you do, I could take his mouth." 

John whined and bucked under Harold's hands.

Zoe went over at the thought of that, arching up out of the armchair, pressing against John so that he could surely not breath. Harold himself was riding that delicate edge of orgasm, and feeling John beneath him, his movements finally clumsy with loss of control and overwhelming desire, took him past the point of no return. He came deep inside John, with his hands spread wide over John's back and his weight resting completely on John. 

When sense came back to him, Harold's hands trembled against John's skin, and he felt his legs quivering with fatigue. In the armchair, Zoe was splayed, legs still spread, all beautiful languor and messy hair. And John, wonderful John still held Harold up, still clenched tight around Harold's softening cock. Harold stroked his back, brushed the silk of the stockings, and slid his hand to John's cock. 

"You've done so well, John. So wonderful." He moved his hand, and wished he could bend enough to kiss John along his back. John, responsive even now, rose up under him, so that Harold could put his lips to each vertebra while he stroked John's cock. Harold's hands had none of the failings of the rest of his body, and he knew John's body so well by now, knew exactly how fast and how firm to work him, knew that one hand on his throat would tip him over. "Let go, John, I am so proud." When John's body went rigid, and Harold felt a warm spill over his hand, he smiled against John's skin, and knew that John could feel his approval and pride. 

Later, they sprawled on the bed together: Harold propped against the bedhead, Zoe curled under the blankets with her hair spread across the pillows. John lay between them, head pillowed on Harold's legs, and Zoe draped across his body. He still wore the silk stockings, though the patent leather pumps were long gone, lost somewhere in the vast room. 

"Yes," said Zoe, and Harold raised his eyebrows at her. 

She pushed hair out of her eyes, and stroked her hand along John's side. "Yes, I accept your proposal," she said. "I've got just the thing for the job." 

Harold stroked John's head, and John nestled deeper against his lap, drowsy and as relaxed as Harold ever got to see him. "I have no doubt," he said. "You are a most resourceful woman, Ms Morgan."


End file.
